Counting Heartbeats
by RagnarokSkurai
Summary: [one shot] Harry's holding himself together the only way he knows how. But is it enough? Can numbers keep him from falling into darkness now that there's nothing else?


I warn you, this has slash. Not explicit slash, but it is there. Not only that, depending on what year you put this in your mind our protagonist may even be under the legal age for this sort of thing. Yah. So run away now if you are so uninclined.

* * *

He missed them, he knew he did. But it wasn't... it wasn't painful. It was a dull ache. Deadened by traumatism and sorrow and the fact that he simply didn't believe they were dead. If they walked into the room this very second he wouldn't be shocked. His heart wouldn't skip a beat.  
  
He sets one hand gently on the table, tapping his finger one by one, sounding them all off. He whispered their names almost reverently, remembering what he loved about then and what killed them, and he thinks he shouldn't have been surprised that they were so often the same things.  
  
_ Percy. Because he knew too much, but mostly because he didn't know enough.  
  
Hermione. A brilliant tactician who wasn't so brilliant on the battlefield.  
  
Mr. Weasley. A successful experiment with his last Muggle toy. A shotgun._  
  
_ Remus. Quick and bold. Not quick enough.  
  
Ginny. Two random curses at the same time. Too many pieces.  
_  
A second hand came to join the first. From one hand to the other.  
  
_Seamus and Dean. Best friends even in death. .  
_

_ Tonks. Beautiful. Strong. Reckless.  
  
Morag. Under Cruciatus too long. Far too long, really. He should have known then...  
  
Charlie. A Dementor.  
  
_ Out of his hands now. Off them. More. So many more.  
  
Cedric. Sirius. George. Blaise. His parents.  
  
There were even more, he knows. He struggles to think.  
  
And... and...  
  
"Mr. Potter?"  
  
Harry stares down at his now listless hands. His cauldron bubbles away in front of him, unwatched and unattended. Potion ingredients lay scattered around his desk.  
  
"Care to explain exactly what is wrong?"  
  
Harry looks up at bleakly. "I lost count."

* * *

It takes four hundred and twelve steps to get from the Great Hall to Gryffindor Tower. There are twenty-seven steps in the staircase to the Astronomy Tower, forty-eight in the one to the Divination Room, and sixteen in the one that leads to the boys' dorm. It takes two minutes and six seconds to walk from Charms to Transfiguration. One minute and forty-three seconds to walk from Transfiguration to Potions class. Five seconds to walk from the door to his seat.  
  
There are nineteen desks in the room. Thirty-seven chairs. One hundred and seven bottles on the shelves, all clear except for two that are dark gray. Seven hundred seventy-nine vials in the cupboards. Thirty-five purple ones, one hundred fifty-eight blue ones, one hundred forty-two green ones, one hundred twelve yellow, thirteen clear, sixty-five gray, two hundred and eleven red ones, and a forty-three of various shades of gray.  
  
Class starts. Snape says twelve words.  
  
Harry counts. How many slices it takes to cut up his salamander. One two three  
  
_**falling the splattering of the mud and the cold the cold that works it's way so quickly from his bones to his mind to his heart oh please god**_  
  
four five six  
  
**_ this can't be real make it go away avada kedavra he can't stupefy why him why here why now why why why why contracorpus can't anything be right what is  
_**  
seven eight  
  
_**so wrong the pain the cracking of a bone the screaming crying noise**_  
  
Times he stirs the potion. One two  
  
**_gently softly quietly all there is silence and somehow that's worse than if there were noise he isn't sure the silence or the screaming he can't remember he isn't sure_**  
  
three  
  
Seconds it takes for the potion to boil. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven  
  
_**happy children playing laughing he wants to be them wants to be like them can't  
  
**_ twelve thirteen...  
  
_**can't never was he's an ancient in a sixteen year old body he's lost confused lonely alone nowhere to be  
**_  
...twenty twenty-one twenty-two...  
  
**_ no one to love nothing to understand nothing to call his own to bring him comfort to comfort him to bring comfort to everyone wants him to  
_**  
...twenty-nine thirty thirty-one...  
  
**_be him he wants to be anything but because he's nothing and no one and empty emptiness vast pointless emptiness damn it he can't feel  
_**  
...forty-three forty-four forty-five forty-six forty-seven forty-eight forty- nine fifty fifty-one fifty-two fifty-three fifty-four fifty-five fifty-six fifty-seven –  
  
**_he can barely think he can't concentrate he counts the beats of the girl's jump rope on the side walk shifting uncomfortably in a bed that isn't his nothing's his here everything's sterile blank and white blinding whiteness he sees when he's awake struggles against the darkness when he's asleep there's no balance there's no cure there's no –_**  
  
He feels a cold hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Problem, Potter?" The eyes that stare down on him are cold but not unfeeling, and he knows they are always watching him. Harry has a peculiar feeling that Snape knew exactly what was happening.  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Then perhaps you should finish your potion, hm?"  
  
He hears the Slytherins snicker and against his will his heart begins to beat faster and faster. He tries to count the beats but they're erratic. He can't find their rhythm, their reason. His breathing becomes harsher. He doesn't know what to do. The potions classroom seems very bright all of a sudden. He's lost count.

* * *

Fingers. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten.  
  
Toes. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten.  
  
Legs. One two.  
  
Arms. One two.  
  
Nose. One. Rather large, come to think of it.  
  
But no. No thinking.  
  
"You don't have to do that."  
  
Lips. One two.  
  
"Don't do that."  
  
Eyelashes. One two three four five six  
  
"Harry."  
  
Seven eight nine ten eleven.  
  
"Harry..."  
  
His lover always knows exactly what he's doing.  
  
Twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen.  
  
At least it seems like it lately.  
  
Seventeen eighteen –  
  
Strong hands grab onto his shoulders and shake him roughly. "Stop it!" Shakes. One two.  
  
"I can't. I can't stop! I've tried, I have!" One two three four five six seven eight nine words. "I can't." Ten eleven. "Severus, you know I can't stop." Twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen.  
  
"I don't have time for this."  
  
Scars on his back. One two three four.  
  
"You don't have time for me."  
  
"Not like this. Not when you're a needy child."  
  
Scars on his chest. One two three  
  
"I can't help it! I just – "  
  
Four five six seven.  
  
"There's still a war going on Harry," Severus sneered. "Or have you forgotten that?"  
  
Marks on his arm. One.  
  
"I haven't forgotten." 

* * *

He was dying. He'd dodged this moment long enough to know what it felt like. This time... this time there was no one to save him. No blessing to protect him, no spells, no nothing. No way he could even help himself.  
  
Everyone else was dead. At least everyone he could find. Of course, just because he couldn't find a body didn't mean they weren't dead.  
  
He'd wandered away from the battlesite, counting his steps as he went. He was too weak to Apparate. There wasn't much of a chance that Voldemort had placed his final battle close to civilization; this looked like the middle of nowhere. Hills and forest for miles and miles. On top of that – on top of _everything_ – his wand was broken.  
  
... one thousand twenty-three, one thousand twenty-four...  
  
He still kept walking. He'd meet Death on his feet, thank you very much, and look it in the eye. Yet even as he counted his steps his thoughts began to wonder. Something he didn't allow them to do these days. But, well... wasn't much of a point in starting or stopping anything, now was there?  
  
Hermione. She'd been his best friend. He'd told her things... oh, things even Ron didn't know. She was so amazing, so bloody fucking brilliant. She'd been privately working on a way to block the Killing Curse, something almost everyone thought couldn't be done. Harry knew that if anyone could it would be Hermione. Would have been Hermione. They'd never know now.  
  
Half the Weasley's were gone as well. Ginny, Charlie, Percy, George, Mr. Weasley. They still didn't know about Fred. Ron – Harry couldn't have survived losing Ron as well. He'd actually knocked him out and stuffed him into a locked closet before the battle. Not that it would have held him for very long, but long enough. Ron was sure to be horrified when he woke up. Furious even, angry at having missed his chance to avenge his family. Harry hoped he'd understand in time. After all, Harry had lived for vengeance, and look where it had gotten him.  
  
... one thousand four hundred ninety-six, one thousand four hundred ninety-seven...  
  
Severus... Severus was safe of course. He hadn't been anywhere near Hogwarts when the call had come. The wards the Death Eaters put up had prevented anyone from entering the field after a time. So. Severus was safe.  
  
This was worth it then. He'd saved Ron, saved Severus, killed off ruddy Voldemort. He'd saved the day again, saved the ruddy world, tra la la. Too bad he was fucking dying. Shitty end to a shitty day. Shitty life on the whole too.  
  
He'd stopped most of the blood flow the Muggle way but he knew there was something else wrong. Even if he had the energy left to figure it out chances were there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Not stuck in the middle of nowhere with nothing to cure himself. And things... well, things were getting dark.  
  
.... two thousand twelve, two thousand thirteen...  
  
It was strange, because he knew his body was failing even as his thought process was working perfectly. Was this how quadriplegics felt, angry at their useless bodies that refused to obey commands? Fully aware of their environments yet unable to do anything? And it was getting so dark. How bloody ironic. Harry had always expected his life to end in a brilliant flash of green light. Quick – and who knew? – mayhap even painless. Not that he was feeling much now. Couldn't even move his fingers.  
  
Nothing to count on now. 

* * *

He was far too tired to sleep. Never mind that the words were blurring in front of his face and he'd been on the same page for ten minutes now. Never mind that his fingers had idly traced the quill so many times the feather was falling to pieces. None of that was important. What was important was the body in the bed beside him.  
  
Harry Potter. Savior of the Wizarding World, just as they'd always said he would be. There had always been the possibility of his death – indeed, he should have died years ago, but he was alive for the moment at least. Whether he stayed that way remained to be seen.  
  
"Severus?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Where am I?"  
  
"One would think you'd recognize the Infirmary by now."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"I have so missed your eloquence," he continued dryly. In truth, he was surprised he was able to speak at all, much less keep up his normal façade.  
  
"Right bastard as always, I see." Wearily, the savior of the world tried to get up from the bed only to be firmly pressed down again.  
  
"You aren't going anywhere, I'm afraid. You've lost enough blood for a dozen brainless Gryffindors."  
  
"Or a Slytherin?"  
  
"Or a Slytherin."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"We almost didn't find you, you know." The voice of the Potions Master was curiously monotone, as though he were lecturing on his least favorite of subjects. "What in the name of Merlin were you thinking, walking away from the battlefield like that?"  
  
"I was thinking that I didn't want to die there. It... felt bad."  
  
"Of course it felt bad! There was more Dark Magic residue there in that one spot than in the whole of the world!"  
  
"You're yelling at me."  
  
Severus took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I – " He supposed this was neither the time nor the place, even for one such as him.  
  
"Oh, no. It's all right. If you're yelling at me I can't be nearly as bad off as I feel."  
  
Severus chuckled once, a dry snort that simply could not be concealed. "Brat. Sleep."

* * *

"You don't know what to do with yourself, do you?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Voldemort. You. Not being a Death Eater anymore. Not being a spy. You don't know what to do. I don't think you're even ready to be plain old Potions Master, the cantankerous Severus Snape."  
  
Even Harry could see how unnerved Severus was at being figured out.  
  
"And you should mind your own bloody business."  
  
So he had nailed it on the head after all.  
  
"It'll be fine, you know."  
  
"And how do I know that?"  
  
Because it still takes four hundred and twelve steps to get from the Great Hall to Gryffindor Tower, and there are still twenty-seven steps in the staircase to the Astronomy Tower, forty-eight in the one to the Divination Room, and sixteen in the one that leads to the boys' dorm. It still takes two minutes and six seconds to walk from Charms to Transfiguration and one minute and forty-three seconds to walk from Transfiguration to Potions class. Severus still has one hundred and seven bottles on the shelves, all clear except for two that are dark gray. Seven hundred seventy-nine vials in the cupboards. Thirty-five purple ones, one hundred fifty-eight blue ones, one hundred forty-two green ones, one hundred twelve yellow, sixty-five gray, two hundred and eleven red ones, and a forty-three of various shades of gray, and now there are only twelve clear because Neville broke one last week. But it doesn't matter. None of that is as important as it used to be.  
  
Harry carefully peeled back the shirtsleeve on Severus' arm, running his hand over skin that was by no means flawless, but at least was no longer branded.  
  
Marks on his arm. None.  
  
"Everything will be fine."

* * *

A/N This is a trick I use on myself when I'm nervous. Counting things makes everything seem a little more rational, a little easier to deal with. Of course what I'm usually dealing with is like a speech or something, so I really took this into overdrive. But that's where the inspiration came from. 


End file.
